


in glory undimmed

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-02 07:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14539299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: At the end of the season, there is this: a decision.





	in glory undimmed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selenedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/gifts).



> Dear Recip, hope u like this! i loff u

  
  


At the end of the season, there is this: a decision. 

 

-

 

The decision wasn’t knocking on the door. The decision was in his home, sipping from his mother’s teacups, making itself at ease. He couldn’t look anywhere without meeting its eyes, so he does it, and gradually, not making his decision becomes easier. There are always, of course, things that delayed the choice, things he told himself would influence the choice, but in the end-

 

That was the issue, wasn’t it? The end.

  
  
  


-

 

Summer sneaks into Turin with no warning. One day it was just there, turning trees to green, not the spring green characterizing frailness, but something full bodied and calm. Gigi has no idea what he was still doing here, enduring the heat and not making his escape while he could. His phone buzzes intermittently, but he only really replies to a couple. Leo, of course. Andrea, because he wouldn’t stop texting, dry observations of things that Gigi has no idea how to reply to but perversely made him want to try to anyway. Paulo, from time to time. 

  
  


He looks in the mirror only when shaving. The man in the mirror looks back at him, frank, meeting his own eyes easily. The foam gathers in the basin. Gigi looks, for a long time. The decision swam around in his head, hidden behind his eyes. 

 

He thinks, there is something futile about reaching for perfection. 

He thinks, this has never stopped him before. 

  
  


-

 

He is sitting in the dining room when it happens. It opens out into a balcony, and the air conditioning conveniently decided to go haywire on a day that was approaching 50 degrees, the television weatherman complaining for the whole of Turin about the rise in temperature in recent days. So Gigi gets up to open the balcony door- it sticks a little, and then when he finally cracks it open a brief wind steals in, ruffling the curtain the gentlest amount. He might have closed his eyes.

 

He opens them and he’s standing on a football pitch. It wasn’t a hallucination- it wasn’t some heat induced fever dream- Gigi stands there, one hand still raised, the sensation of touching hot metal under his finger tips. It isn't hot anymore. It isn’t summer anymore. A cool spring wind steals around him, ruffling his hair from his sweat slicked forehead. 

 

There’s a group of youth players on the field further away from him, running and shrieking along after the ball. They were very young, from what he can see. A riot of colored bibs, making them look like butterflies, or a flock of brightly colored birds. 

 

Gigi barely has time to think,  _ Where am I _ , before the scene changes between a blink. He’s back in his own house.

 

He snatches his hand away from the edge of the glass- it was burning him. Gigi swears, goes into the kitchen for a glass of water, and calls the maintenance company for the third time. 

  
  


-

 

“I think I’m going senile,” Gigi says. 

  
“Yes,” Andrea says, “That’s a known effect of being ancient. You’ve been hit by too many balls, old man.”

  
Gigi fights a smile. “Why do I still call you?”   
  


“‘Cos I’m terrible. And I’m old. And you love me,” Andrea says, “Do you want me to keep going?”   
  


“No,” Gigi sighs. “But I really had a weird moment the other day.”   
  


“Stay hydrated,” Andrea says. “I have to go mini golfing. Call me later, or better still, on the weekend. Ciao.”   
  


Gigi rolls his eyes. “Have fun. Don’t break anything.” 

 

-

  
  


He wandered around the house cautiously for the next couple days, wondering if it would happen again. Perhaps it was just a momentary hallucination, brought on by sleep deprivation and the stifling weather. Perhaps he had been hit on the head too many times. Perhaps he should see a doctor. 

But it had felt so real. The ground underneath his feet. The scent of grass on the pitch, just wetted by sprinklers, the sun and the faraway yells of the players. They were wearing white underneath their bibs, he recalls. The added detail didn’t serve to make anything clearer. 

Meanwhile he continued as he always did. The matchless summer drifted gently in front of him, heralded by the coming World Cup. His agent left him a voice message which Gigi absently deletes. It wasn’t like him, hiding. And yet- 

 

There’s a sense of everything on pause. A second, suspended on and on. 

 

-

 

It happens again, this time outside. He’s going back home from the market, carrying miscellaneous fruit in a bag, and the next second he was stepping into another street. It felt subtly different, going from one street to the next. Perhaps it was a change in the air. Nonetheless Gigi stops, circles around on the spot, wondering what had happened. 

 

A ball rolls to his feet. He traps it with his foot unthinkingly, which prompted a cry from the boy racing out of the nearby courtyard. 

“That’s my ball!” he says. 

 

Gigi picks it up. “Here you go. Take better care of it next time.” 

 

The boy looked up at Gigi. Something about him was familiar, but Gigi couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He had a sharp sort of look, too inquisitive for his age. He looked like the sort of child that would be a handful. Gigi smiles at him. 

 

The boy stared back. “It wasn’t me who kicked it over the wall. It was Unai.” 

 

Gigi notices, belatedly, the boy was wearing goalkeeper gloves. They were slightly too big for him, a strap hanging loose on his right hand. Gigi squats down and gestures for the boy to come closer, and when he does, cautiously, tightens the strap for him. 

 

“You need smaller gloves,” Gigi says. “A goalkeeper must have gloves that fit.”    
  


“Are you a goalkeeper too?” the boys says, suddenly wide eyed. “Are you famous? Who are you? Why don’t I know you?” 

 

“I’m-” Gigi laughs, waving away the burst of questions. “My name is Gigi. What’s your name?” 

 

“Iker,” the boys says promptly. “Iker Casillas.” 

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Gigi says, after a pause. His head buzzed. He sticks out a hand and Iker shakes it, grinning at how Gigi’s hand still enveloped his goalkeeping gloves. 

 

Gigi stands up, and he’s back in the street in Turin. There was no one there, no boy, no house. Cars pass him, but he’s still stuck, for a second, unable to move. 

  
  


-

 

At first, he chalks it up to coincidence. Surely he must have blanked out for a moment, walked up the wrong street, and met a boy also named Iker Casillas. Then he must have blanked out and walked back. It grudgingly made sense, although no matter how hard Gigi tried to convince himself, the doubt still remained. The boy had reminded him of Iker- looking back, it was quite clear how much he resembled the grown man Gigi knew. 

 

Gigi had no idea what to do with this fact. He considered calling Andrea again, but Andrea would tell him to quit day drinking and take up another hobby, hopefully not gambling this time, and get out of the house more. This was possibly helpful, but not under the circumstances. The worst was, he had no idea what triggered these- events. He even considered calling Iker, but again, the prospect of explaining the encounter was too confusing for him to contemplate. 

 

That left no other options, except waiting and carrying on as he always did. At least, if it happened again, he may be somewhat prepared. 

  
  


-

  
  


It happens again. This time he’s in his house again, going from the kitchen to the living room, the TV on in the background. And then he isn’t, he’s on a practice pitch, watching Iker - for there was no doubt that’s who he was - train. He didn’t look a lot older than he had been the last time. Perhaps taller. His face remained the same, ruddy cheeked. 

 

Iker meets his eye mid dive. Gigi could see it happen, Iker’s eyes widening in confusion- the ball hits his palms and bounces off at an angle. Iker recovers, but not before getting chewed out by the coach. There’s a break after a bit, the boys standing in a semi circle around their coach, heads tipped up and drinking from their water bottles. Iker kept sneaking glances at where Gigi stood, on the grass to the side of the pitch. It made Gigi smile. Sure enough, he came jogging up to where Gigi stood, and stands there, hand shielding his eyes. 

 

“You’re Gigi Buffon,” Iker announces, triumphant. 

 

“Yes,” Gigi says. “I am.” 

 

“Please don’t go,” Iker pants. He leans over, hands on his thighs. “Practice finishes soon. Stay here?” 

 

Gigi shrugs. It wasn’t like he knew how to leave here, wherever here was. “Sure.” 

  
Iker flashes him a grin and jogs away. Gigi settles down on the side of the pitch, arms around his legs, and watches. 

 

-

 

“I don’t think anyone else can see you,” Iker says seriously. He’s sitting beside Gigi now, winding a piece of grass around his finger. 

 

Gigi thinks about it. It was probably true. No one had approached him or asked him why he suddenly appeared out of thin air. No one, except Iker. Who keeps sneaking glances at him like he was some exotic creature. Gigi supposes that was also true, in a way. He shrugs, and lies down on the grass. Iker remained thoughtful above him.

 

“But why are you here?” Iker says, eyebrows drawn together. “Why do you look so old? Are you magic? Is that how you’re so good? Is that-” Here he stops, aware he’s on shaky grounds. “Isn’t that against the rules of fair play?” 

 

Gigi laughs; he couldn’t help himself. The Iker he knew didn’t ask so many questions, but the Iker he knew was a grown man, seasoned and comfortable with himself. This Iker, raw boned and fluffy haired, still with baby fat on his cheeks and eyes permanently wide, like he wanted to take the whole world in at once, was just a boy, growing. 

 

“I’m not magic,” Gigi says. “I don’t really know what’s happening. I just visit you, from time to time.” 

 

Iker nods, even though it wasn’t really a satisfactory explanation. 

 

“A guardian angel,” he says suddenly, sneaking a peek at Gigi and grinning. “Help me then, Gigi Buffon.” 

 

“I’m not sure that’s what I’m here for,” Gigi laughs. “But-” he looks at Iker, still staring expectantly at him. 

 

“Alright,” Gigi says. “Get back in goal.” 

  
  
  


-

 

Iker was good. Not as good as he would become one day, maybe a couple years from then, but he had, clearly, all the makings of a great goalkeeper. It lay inside him, very close to the surface. Another season’s worth of training, competing, winning and losing and it’ll shine out of him, finally undeniable to anyone who had eyes. But it was evident to Gigi already because Gigi knew what to look for, the one thing that made goalkeepers what they were. The one thing that made them come back to the goal, to stand in the target and take their punishment. 

 

Iker was fearless. In fact, something of a masochist. Gigi knew that feeling quite intimately. 

 

-

 

He came back to the present between one step and the other, Iker laughing and walking back to where he locked his bicycle after their impromptu extra practice section. It takes Gigi’s breath away even though this wasn’t the first time it happened, the suddenness in the shift of scenes. There was something of the past that lingered when he came back- maybe just a scent that Gigi carried. Warm grass and autumn air.

 

He shakes his head and turns on the lights in the living room, wondering what Iker thought of his sudden appearances and disappearances, wondering when he’ll see Iker again, and how many years would have passed for him when he does. 

  
  


-

  
  


It was only a day, actually. Gigi’s making coffee the next morning, staring blearily at the espresso machine as it sputtered and wondering whether it made sense to keep using it when he has a new one, somewhere, tucked away in the attic. Then he’s enveloped by a gust of wind from a cool autumn day, standing in the middle of the road. There’s a familiar looking boy sitting on the steps of a house in front of him. 

 

Iker raised his coca cola bottle at him, smile transforming his whole face. He looked like he’d grown a couple more years, his angles more polished.

“The Champions League, Gigi,” Iker says, laughing. “I’m going to the Champion’s league!” 

His voice was deeper. Gigi felt something visceral in the moment, or perhaps it was only the wind, singing around them. Iker looked so happy, unrestrained, the kind that could only belong to someone young at the time of their triumph. An uncontested happiness. 

 

Gigi raised a hand at him, “Congratulations. Iker.” And the wind took him back. 

 

Gigi stares at his half filled coffee cup, still seeing Iker’s face. He doesn’t look up the scoreline from Iker’s first match, for it was years past and already done with. He wondered again why it keeps happening, these glimpses into Iker’s life, and what he was supposed to do with them. 

 

-

  
  


A couple days pass, every change in the air making Gigi want to screw up his eyes and brace himself. But it doesn’t happen- his house remained his house, enclosed around him, safe and quiet. He feels antsy, the first time in a long time. He wanted to go out for a walk, but then wondered what he would do if he appeared before Iker between one step on the sidewalk and the other. He wanted to be prepared, or something, even though there was no way to be prepared for this sort of thing. It was out of his hands. 

At least this was what Gigi told himself, switching from channel to channel on the television, sitting on the floor. He stretched his legs out before him. He keeps his shoes on. 

 

Before he has anymore time to drive himself crazy about the logistics of it, it happens again. 

 

-

 

“Hello,” Iker says. He was making cola cao. “I still haven’t seen the real you.” 

Gigi blinks at him, confused. “What do you mean?” 

“You’re from the future,” Iker explains, matter of factly, as though he was the one who knew everything that was going on. “Because you look old, and you’re only a few years older than me in reality.” 

Gigi watches Iker open a cupboard and rummage around. 

“Do you want one too?” Iker asks, emerging with a clean cup. Gigi nods, absently. He was still stuck on this simple explanation. Put like that, it seemed pretty obvious. Iker tips two heaping spoonfuls of chocolate powder into each cup, and puts the kettle on. He leans back against the counter, looking at Gigi. 

They stare at each other for a moment, Gigi trying to take in Iker. He looked worn, but still very young. Not a boy anymore, but perhaps not yet a man. 

“What year is it?” Gigi asks. 

“2001.” 

“And you’re playing for Madrid? The first team.” It wasn’t a question. Gigi knew the bare bones of Iker’s history, as he did all the other notable goalkeepers of his generation. It was simply a matter of preparation. It was good to know. 

Iker shrugs. He stared down at his hands while the kettle whistled shrilly behind him. There’s a slump in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. It spoke of all the years since Gigi had seen him last. Gigi wondered how it affected him, to have a stranger show up with no warning throughout your life. He wondered if Iker took him as some kind of omen, perhaps even a messenger. 

 

“Tell me about yourself,” Iker says. “I’d like to know.” 

“What is there to tell?” Gigi says. “I’m a goalkeeper. Like you. I play for Juventus. Played. But you know all that.” 

Iker raises his eyebrows. “Are you retired?” 

Gigi doesn’t hesitate,“I am.” The kettle pops at the same time Gigi answers, and Iker goes to make the drinks. He stirs each cup carefully, with a spoon, and brings both cups to the table.

 

“Do we know each other? In the future?” Iker asks. He puts his spoon down on the table, heedless of the imprint it would make. It seemed to Gigi, with a sudden constricting of his heart, that it was something only a young man would do. 

 

“Did you eat?” Gigi asks instead. He gestures to the clock behind Iker. “It seems like dinner time.” 

“No,” Iker says, perking up a little at the mention of food. “We can order food.” 

Gigi stared at him a beat. “I’ll cook.” 

“You won’t disappear? I’ll burn the whole kitchen down, you know.” 

“I don’t know. I suppose you have to watch what I do and do what I tell you then, Casillas.” 

 

Iker grins. He stands up to give Gigi a saucepan, and their hands brush across each other, brief. 

  
  


-

 

Gigi makes it the whole way through cooking without anything weird happening. He’s still on tenterhooks, expecting the sudden change. But soon Iker pulls him out of his thoughts, like a warm lodestone, with his animated hands and his focused questions, lit by the stove light. Gigi wasn’t really a great cook himself, but carbonara was simple enough. It was, actually, the only thing he made that he really liked to eat. And something about Iker suggested he was hungry for a warm meal that didn’t come out of a box. 

 

Maybe he just wanted to stay longer. But he couldn’t think about that, so it was easier to make pasta. He made enough for four people and then ate it all with Iker, who’s piling on compliments like someone who’d been starved. 

 

“Thank you,” Iker says finally, putting down his fork. He smiles, and Gigi wants to reach across and wipe the sauce from his chin.

 

“You’re welcome,” he says instead. 

  
  


-

  
  


Time showed no sign of whisking him away, not after dinner or later, and before he knows it Gigi’s settling down in Iker’s guest room in a borrowed, slightly too small shirt. Iker had training early in the morning, so it was an also early night in. He wanted to comment on Iker’s old man behavior, but it seemed unfair. Gigi was the same.

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, aware there’s sound somewhere but unable to put a finger on it for a long time. Finally he realises it’s the television, and he opens the door to find Iker, slumped on the couch. He’s watching his own replays. Iker raises his head at Gigi, but doesn’t say anything. 

 

The fluorescence from the tv set highlighted the hollows in Iker’s eyes. 2001. Gigi racked his brain to figure out what happened then. It had been his first season at Juventus, and - Sanchez had been goalkeeper for Real Madrid. Iker wasn’t the first choice keeper. He was young, but it must have worn him out. There didn’t seem anything he could say, though there were obvious choices.  _ Hold on, and you will become the best. You’ll be captain of Real one day. You’ll win everything there is to win.  _

 

He didn’t say it because it didn’t seem fair, or right. He couldn’t be a herald of Iker’s future. For some intangible reason, Gigi knew it wasn’t his place to come between Iker and his own self belief. 

 

So what was he here for? He goes to sit beside Iker on the couch, Iker’s smile weary but grateful, and watches with him. Waits with him, for the night to lift and turn into something easier to bear. 

  
  


-

 

Gigi wakes up on his own couch. The clock indicates he hadn’t left at all, the long arm pointing gently at quarter to 10am. 

He goes about his life normally, trying not to think about Iker. Iker was fine- Iker was in Porto, tested and tried but safe, with a case full of trophies and few regrets. Everything became strange once Gigi thought too hard about it, so he decided to stop. 

 

It became easier, so that every time he could almost sense the change in the air a second before it happens. 

  
  
  


-

 

He’s walking through his front door and- 

 

A stadium (Hampden Park). A man (a goalkeeper). A Champions League final. He’s in the stands, high up, like a bird or something removed from the affairs of man, watching the green field below. 

 

Gigi had often wondered: What is a keeper? Keeper of what? He doesn’t know. Perhaps, a keeper of faith. The eleventh man, the last and final hope. Iker stood between the posts, carrying all twenty one of his years, his legs planted, his arms outstretched, the second choice keeper thrust into the world’s gaze. 

 

_ What is a goalkeeper?  _

 

A man who stood his ground. And Gigi waited there, until the whistle went and Real Madrid won and Iker finally left the posts he guarded, a young man, a newly crowned king. 

  
  
  


-

 

He’s washing his hands in the sink after dinner, drifts of breeze stealing in through the window, and-

 

The Bernabeu. Iker in a captain’s armband. Gigi’s close enough this time to see his face, on the touchline by the goal. He marvels at the difference in Iker, the sense of time constricting around him. Ten years, in a glimpse. 

 

Iker’s yelling all manner of profanities at his back line. It made Gigi laugh, and Iker turns briefly. Their eyes meet. Iker grins at him, almost raises a hand but catches himself. The ball made its way down the pitch and Iker turns back, tensing. 

 

Gigi watches him make a save, death defying and easy in the same move, just as he did as a child in the youth teams, his face alight with fervor. 

 

He thinks he knows what he sees now- Casillas. A saint, a savior, a miracle man. Iker’s sharp jawline, the tilt of his chin, the curve of his neck- Gigi sees now, that it was men like Iker who made people want kings. Iker was a beautiful picture- no. He was a beautiful feeling. 

 

The air around him shimmers. Gigi steps forward, closes his eyes. The darkening kitchen around him settles into place like a sigh. 

  
  


-

 

Gigi feels unmoored. It wasn’t like anything he’d experienced before, and above everything he wanted to call Iker. But he couldn’t, not yet. It felt like he needed more time to see things through. 

So he waits, the clock ticking ever so slowly past every minute, every hour. There are no messages on his answering machine. The decision he thought he still had became something remote and disconnected to him, like it was something happening to someone else. Perhaps he’d been deluding himself all along that there was any decision left. Instead, he felt himself drawn to the past, to someone else’s life, like a man walking away from the cold into warmth. 

  
  


-

 

He’s getting ready for bed when it happens again. Iker’s brushing his teeth in the sink, his arm in cast by his side. 

“What year is it,” Gigi asks, going to stand by the open bathroom door. The light is soft and orange. Iker’s wearing a white shirt and raising his eyebrows, mouth full of foam.    
Gigi goes in and sits on the bathtub, waiting idly. Iker’s bathroom is huge, a wisp of some vaguely familiar perfume hanging in the air. There’s a myriad of skincare products on shelves. Iker’s girlfriend’s, Gigi presumes.

“It’s 2013,” Iker says. He’s drying his hand carefully. There’s an exaggerated care in his movements, even though his arm was bulky. He manoeuvres it so it rests against his side. 

“Where have you been,” he says. He spares Gigi a fond glance, then strips out of his shirt. 

“Oh,” Gigi says, “It’s been two days since I last saw you. Nowhere. Home.” 

Gigi stands up again, and Iker lets him pass. 

“Just wait a bit,” Iker says. “I’ll be fast. Then we can catch up.” 

“Inopportune times,” Gigi says. He lets Iker shut the door, then listens for a beat outside while the water turns on and the glass door of the shower thumps closed. 

Gigi shakes his head. Too close. Everything feels muddled. 

  
  


He’s rifling through newspapers on the living room table -  _ Iker Casillas Injured, Real Madrid in Crisis -  _ when Iker comes back, toweling his hair. 

 

“You shouldn’t read these things,” Gigi says.

 

Iker shrugs, picking out an apple from the fruit bowl. “It doesn’t bother me.” 

 

“Really,” Gigi says. It was hard not to be skeptical, with young Iker so fresh on his mind. This Iker was far closer to him in age than the previous, but he still felt different. Gigi wonders if every season, like a trial by fire, aged someone beyond recognition. He wonders suddenly if their positions were reversed, if Iker would feel the same about him. 

 

Iker smiles at him. “Yes. No. It does and it doesn’t. I read it just so I know what they’re saying.”    
He bit his lip, picking at the edge of the tablecloth. 

 

“I understand,” Gigi says. He reaches across to touch Iker’s shoulder, the unexpected heat on Iker’s skin after the shower startling. Iker looks up and meets his eyes, eyelashes still wet, hair flopped over his face. 

 

“I know you do,” Iker says. “The guest room is still yours, if you want it. Now tell me what happened since I last saw you.” 

 

-

 

Iker was as curious as ever about how it all worked, and Gigi couldn’t really fault him. He had years to wonder about the mechanisms behind Gigi’s appearances, whereas Gigi just had days. Mostly Iker wanted to talk about what’s happening in the future, but these questions Gigi fielded easily. He was retired, Iker wasn’t retired, no he won’t tell Iker if they win the league this year or not, nor the champions league, not next year either. 

 

“At least tell me which year you’re from,” Iker says. 

 

“2018,” Gigi replies, giving in. 

 

“Oh! That’s only five years from now,” Iker says, surprised. “It feels-” he stops, thoughtful. 

 

“It feels longer,” Gigi finishes for him.

 

They both sit for a bit, chewing on this thought, till Iker gets up and yawns. He’s only wearing boxers under his shirt, Gigi notices for the first time. 

 

“Early night,” Iker says behind his hand, mid yawn. “I have to see the doctors again tomorrow.” 

 

“Goodnight,” Gigi says. “I always come at the strangest times, don’t I.” 

 

“No,” Iker says. He reaches out to cup Gigi’s face briefly, swipes a thumb across his cheek and drops his hand. It happens so fast Gigi doesn’t even register it, before Iker’s turning away. 

 

“You always come at the right time,” Iker says over his shoulder. He clicks off the light and Gigi follows him, already knowing the way to his room at Iker’s house. 

  
  


-

 

Gigi expected to wake up in his own bed, and he found to his surprise that it wasn’t the case. Instead he was still in Iker’s quietly decorated guest room.

 

Iker had left a note on the living room table.  _ If you’re still here, there’s eggs in the fridge. Will be back at 11 :)  _

 

He’d drawn a smiley face. Gigi shook his head. He wondered if Iker had looked in on him before he left, but had no memory of it. Sleeping in a time not his own was confusing enough, without this. He wanted to ask Iker where Sarah was, since Sarah obviously visited frequently, if not outright lived here. 

 

Iker didn’t come back till late, around time for siesta, the streets muted outside, interrupted by the occasional sound of a passing car. Gigi’s watching television, for lack of better things to do, and Iker comes in, eyebrows tightly knotted. 

 

He nods at Gigi and goes to the fridge, passing a beer to Gigi and putting one between his knees as he sat down. Gigi watches him twist it open with one hand, then drink it, still frowning. 

 

Iker sighs. “It’s Mourinho.” Then he said something under his breath which Gigi caught and made him laugh. 

 

“It’s that bad, huh,” Gigi says. 

 

“It wasn’t bad in the beginning, but now it is,” Iker says. “He’s bringing back Lopez.” His hand trembled in its cast. Gigi wonders if Iker even noticed it himself. 

 

“Come here,” Gigi says, instinctive. Iker looks at him, uncomprehending, and Gigi holds his arms out. Iker shuffles over on the couch so they’re leaning against each other, awkwardly, Iker’s broken hand laid out over his knee. Iker turns his head against Gigi’s shoulder, buries his face there and breathes. Gigi smooths a hand over his hair. 

 

“You know what I’m going to say,” Gigi says. “I’m from the future.” 

 

“Yes,” Iker says, raising his head and smiling. His eyes were just a little watery. “That it will be okay.” 

  
“You’ll mend,” Gigi says. “Your hand will mend.” 

Iker shakes his head, sitting back up. “I know.” 

 

“But I think there’s something else,” Iker says slowly. He gestures at his chest. “It’s-” 

 

He doesn’t finish the thought, but Gigi already knows. It was more than being a goalkeeper, this, it was an intrinsic part of being a footballer. This despair, this doubt. He used more than his hands and feet to stop the goals; he used his heart. Every season built them up and took them apart, game after game, until the foundations started to crumble. 

 

He looked at Iker, shaken. He remembered his own center spinning out of control those dark years past. 

 

“You’ll mend,” Gigi says again. “I’m telling you. Believe me.” 

 

Iker looks at him, silently. He leans in and kisses Gigi. 

  
  


-

 

It’s so quiet in Madrid during the afternoon, everything silent in Iker’s apartment except the soft humming of the refrigerator. Gigi couldn’t even hear the occasional car passing anymore, though he’s looking out for it, the crunch of gravel and spatter of sand. Iker’s still kissing him, insistent but soft edged.

 

Gigi pulls back. “Iker.” 

 

He finally has a good look at him, Iker looking shipwrecked. Gigi wanted to tuck him in bed and stop the collision before it happens, as though this was one more shot he can stop, an impending disaster. But it’s already happened, Iker licking his lips like he can still taste Gigi. 

  
Gigi stands up, watches Iker frown faintly, and stretches out a hand. “Come on.” 

 

“Where?” Iker asks. 

 

“To bed, so you won’t break anything,” Gigi says. Impulsively, he kissed the spot above Iker’s ear, on the hairline by his temple. Iker wraps an arm around him, and they walk to the bedroom like that, supported, supporting. 

 

-

  
  


He undresses Iker carefully, even though Iker laughs, hand balanced on Gigi’s shoulder and stepping out of his jeans. 

 

“It’s just my thumb, Gigi,” Iker says. He tugs his shirt up, and Gigi pulls it off. “I’m perfectly fine.” 

 

“Sure,” Gigi says. Iker wasn’t fragile at all, not by any means. It made Gigi want to treat him kinder, somehow. 

 

“Then come on,” Iker says, impatient. He pushed Gigi on the bed and straddled him, then sat there a little, as though he’s forgotten what should come next. Gigi stifles a laugh. 

  
“We should go slow,” Gigi says. 

 

“Why?” Iker says, leaning down to bite the underside of Gigi’s jaw. He’s hard, already, running a hand up Gigi’s thigh, tugging Gigi’s shirt off. Iker makes a sound when he forgets he can’t use his other hand, then a wince when he puts it down wrong on Gigi’s chest. 

 

“I keep forgetting,” Iker says, “Even just doing normal things-” Gigi rolls him over and settles there, over Iker, his elbows on either side of Iker’s face. What’s a goalkeeper without his hands? 

 

“Did I change?” Iker whispers, in the quiet space between them. “Tell me, Gigi. What happened to me?” 

 

Gigi just looks at him, holds him there with his body and looks into his face and tries to find an answer for Iker, something that doesn’t change his future and yet offers some comfort. Iker looks back, pulse ticking at his throat, his eyelashes flickering. 

 

“No,” Gigi says finally. Then he slides down the bed and kisses Iker’s hip, Iker’s leg trembling against his will. Gigi holds down his thighs, pressing a smile into Iker’s skin. 

 

Iker’s hands are curled into the bedsheets, not quite holding on. They make nervous movements, as though Iker wanted to touch Gigi but wasn’t sure quite how to. Gigi threads his fingers in Iker’s at the same time he takes Iker into his mouth. 

 

Iker makes a noise. He’s fisted a hand against his mouth, almost wincing because it’s his broken one, thumb not quite bending properly. Gigi spares a thought of concern for the healing process but doesn’t quite get there. Iker’s hips thrust, and he moans, properly out loud this time. Gigi works him slowly with his hand and his mouth, until Iker’s breath hitches and he comes. 

 

Gigi looks at him, Iker’s eyes shut. He opens them slowly, squinting at Gigi who’s still kneeling between his legs, shy smile around his lips as though he was embarrassed that was all it took. He looked so soft that Gigi felt a twist in his chest.   
  


“Hey,” Iker says, tugging at his shoulder. “Hey.”   
  


“Yes?” Gigi answers. He smiles, unable to help it, Iker tugging him up to kiss him deep, mouth warm and open. 

 

“Fuck me,” Iker says. It comes out natural and Gigi didn’t know how to refuse. He couldn’t even if he tried. He struggles out of his own pants and Iker’s laughing silently at him, eyes bright and legs spread, long fingered hands splayed on the bed sheets. 

 

Gigi finds lube in the drawer beside the bed and Iker’s cheeks flush, whether in anticipation or embarrassment Gigi doesn’t know. His hands shake when he’s pushing two fingers into Iker, swallowing his moans. Gigi buries his face in Iker’s shoulder when they attain the right rhythm, every part of Iker he’s touching hot like a man running a fever. 

 

He comes and everything silences for a second, his heart stuttering between beats. When he opens his eyes Iker’s there, brushing aside hair from Gigi’s face. There were no more words, then. There was no more thought. It was as if every version of himself from past and future, is totally, absolutely, coalesced into one. He is here, and Iker’s touching his face, gentle. 

  
  
  


“Stay,” Iker says, later. They’re lying side by side. The windows are open and the breeze rustles the curtains. He’s smiling at Gigi with one eye open, and Gigi watches as it flutters closed. 

 

“Another time,” Gigi says. He presses a kiss on Iker’s shoulder, and falls asleep. 

  
  


-

  
  


He wakes in his own bed, on top of his pristine sheets. 

 

Nothing at all happens for a week, and Gigi begins to think that whatever had happened has ended as abruptly as it began. Surely this was it, and he should call Iker now, discuss what had happened. Instead he gets a call from Juventus with a deal,  _ One more year. _ It wasn’t too late after all. The decision hadn’t gone anywhere. 

 

He still wanted to call Iker. He remembers,  _ We’ll retire together, _ Iker’s enigmatic smile, the pact he hadn’t known he was part of and couldn’t imagine not accepting. 

 

-

 

 

 

 

_ Plant your legs so you have a steady foundation. A triangle is the strongest shape. Now hunch down and be ready. Let your eyes be ready. Let your heart be ready. Let your hands be ready. Let your voice be loud.  _

 

_ Now listen to the crowd for a moment before you focus. What do you hear? A prayer. A song. Your name. Their voice. This is what you hear: Please give me something real. please give me something I can hold in my hands without burning me, a story for the ages, something remote and familiar at the same time. Give me a paradox, an emergency; give me a miracle.  _

 

_ The field is yours. The goalpost is yours. These hopes, yours.  _

 

 

 

 

-

 

He’s washing the dishes when it happens again. 

  
  


The boy on the pitch steps up to the goal. He was lanky, tall for his age. He had dark hair and ruddy cheeks and a smile. Gigi watches him stand there, flexing his hands in his brand new gloves. He looks excited, face alight with something feverish. The boy taps a hand against the post, pensive, then turns around and bends his knees. 

 

Gigi thinks,  _ Ah-  _

 

He takes a step forward but it was already gone. Gigi’s back in his own kitchen, blinking his eyes from the sudden darkness. There are sunspots all around him, from the abrupt shift. He still smells - pine. Honeysuckle. The heavy muddied scent of wet grass trampled by football boots. A summer in Collecchio, long ago. 

 

He looks down at his hands, covered in dish soap. After all these years- still- they look naked and vulnerable without his gloves. 

  
  


-

  
  


_ Back in that summer, the heavy air distilled around him, the boy’s yelling, diving onto the grass with abandon. Something had changed- something fundamental, the universe shifting to settle on the correct axis.  _

 

_ Gianluigi Buffon saves a goal, falls to his knees. The sun is high up, fiery in the sky. He’s laughing, breathless, unable to reply to the coach for the magnitude of the certain knowledge he now has-  _

 

_ He will be a flag, a gust of wind, a charging bull, a matador. He will be a man, standing. He will be a goalkeeper, and he will never turn his face to the goal again.  _

  
  


 

 

-

  
  


Something he knows: the ball waits for no one- it only comes, guided by someone’s boot and afloat in the air, impersonal, personal, inconsequential and yet the only thing that mattered in that moment- the ball comes. So there he was, looking at it. The decision wasn’t waiting anymore. The decision was his, along with everything else that came with it. So he makes it. 

 

It was as easy as that, in the end.

 

-

  
  


“Iker,” he says. “One more season.”   
  


Iker laughs and it comes through the phone loud and warm, as though he was standing right there beside Gigi.  

“Hi to you too,” Iker says. “You finally called.” 

“I know,” Gigi says. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Iker says. “But come visit me.” 

“Alright,” Gigi says. He doesn’t ask Iker to wait, or even say goodbye. He just hangs up the phone and buys a plane ticket. Iker has waited long enough.

  
  


-

Gigi runs through all the scenarios that could play out, idly, on the plane ride and the taxi he took to Iker’s. It’s warm and sunny and picturesque in Porto, a city built for postcards and holidays, floating as if on a cloud in the haze coming off the water. He thinks about Iker, in the midst of all those terracotta roofs and cream walls, tries to envision what Iker will say or do when he opens the front door and sees Gigi.

 

He doesn’t say anything, it turns out. Iker raises a hand, blinking, opens his mouth and nothing comes out. Gigi laughs, because he couldn’t help himself. Iker looked the same in all the right ways, there in the sunlit doorway, barefoot. Gigi drops his bag when he comes in, and they hug, automatically, like it was the end of a match. 

 

They’ve hugged a lot, Gigi thinks, inanely. Before the sudden forages into the past he only had memories of Iker walking toward him from the opposite goal. He wonders how their lives would have remained the same, if all he ever saw was the referee blowing the whistle and then Iker’s shoulder loosening or slumping, the slow walk as they both shed their burden for a second and then the greeting. The brief moment he has, every time, nose buried behind Iker’s ear, lips tinged with salt from Iker’s sweat and the crush of body heat between them.  

 

They were like two planets moving into each other’s orbits for a moment. This was how they met- through the fire. When the match died down and the ashes settled, there they were, opposite each other. He shouldn’t be able to see Iker outside of those bounds, shouldn’t be able to see Iker tousled haired and unweary, stepping back from Gigi’s embrace with a soft smile. 

 

And exactly the right age, for once. Gigi didn’t know what to do with that, now that there was nothing in their way, no time or public deference. He couldn’t disappear from here. He’d have to walk back out through the door.  
  


Iker says, “You’re thinking too much, old man.”   
  


“Old man?” Gigi says, blinking. “You’re three years younger than me.” 

 

Iker has many ways of smiling, Gigi knows. He’s surprised that he does know, even more surprised that he can recognize it. Iker smiles, slow and certain, the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes fanning out, another surprise that shouldn’t be. His mouth quirks at the ends. And Gigi gives in, at that, and it didn’t feel like an emergency, like an incoming ball, like a threat. 

 

He kisses Iker, a hand at the back of Iker’s neck. 

  
  


-

 

They sit on the balcony later, knees touching under the table, watching the sun go down flat over the city and the river turn as dark as the wine they’re drinking. Gigi keeps looking at Iker, expecting, against all reason, to be transported back to his own house. Iker looked contemplative, smirking a little whenever he caught Gigi watching, mouth lingering on the rim of his glass. 

 

Gigi wants to pick up the bottle, stand up, and ask Iker to come to bed. Instead he takes Iker’s hand, and brings it close to his face so he could see the silver scarred line at his thumb. Iker’s looking at him, inquisitive. Gigi takes a sip of wine to avoid saying what’s on his mind.

 

But what is there, after? What can there be, after you’ve been broken and remade so many times that your own shape becomes indistinct except spoken in conjunction to something else. Goalkeeper. Captain. Footballer. 

 

He wasn’t aware he asked the question out loud until Iker answers it. He is careful, his eyes downcast. Gigi watches the shape of the light change on his face. 

“I don’t know,” Iker says, “But we’ll find out when it happens.”

He looks at Gigi, smiling a little. 

“You and me?” Gigi says. He puts down his glass. 

“Yes,” Iker says. “You and me.”

  
  
  


  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> "you and I are old;  
> Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;  
> Death closes all: but something ere the end,  
> Some work of noble note, may yet be done,  
> Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods."  
> \- Ulysses, Lord Tennyson
> 
>  
> 
> ...and the title is from LOTR Appendices:  
> "And long there he lay, an image of the splendour of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world."
> 
>  
> 
> thank u for reading!!


End file.
